Razor ribbon
by ashfruit
Summary: Give a person, say, two years, alot of pain, chalk up with lost precious ones and old memories and the burden of remembering – he’ll probably turn out alot like you. — Cloud fic, post-game.


razor ribbon;

give a person, say, two years, alot of pain, chalk up with lost precious ones and old memories and the burden of remembering – he'll probably turn out alot like you. ; cloud fic, post-game.

can be taken to be pre-AC.

pointless, plotless. you've been warned.

uncapslocked intentional.

apply standard disclaimer here. square-enix owns all.

a/n:

my introspective take of the changes that takes place within Cloud over the years—from crisis core days to the advent of AC. it was then when I was buried deep in my academic work when I started spacing out and thinking about cloud from a broader perspective, and it shook me how different he was back then in CC and now... it was almost like seeing 2 different persons altogether. and there I was thinking "seven years can change a person entirely, huh.." the product is thus of below. don't you just love muses that hit you out of nowhere at the most inopportune times. I do.

* * *

the people he grew up with turn to him sometimes and say, "I remember you alot, Cloud. but I remember you were also the one who used to laugh alot, joke alot, smile alot, and often shout, _someday I'll be Sephiroth! _I miss that, Cloud."

in summary, (cloud likes simplification), they are trying to ask, "what happened between the years that passed?"

their eyes betray them. honestly? they want the truth: did you lose something precious somehow?

he just stare them with blank eyes.

(goddamn yes, sometimes he just wants to say. now, leave me alone.)

_just go away, leave me alone to die. _

the people that only recently come to know of him, know of his heroic antics, like to tease him about his stoicness, his impersonable character far from affable, and how he always lacks the making of a conventional hero--- suave, charming, charismatic, personable, righteous, loud, fast-talking, intelligent. he only fits half of the bill. he knows behind his back, they're talking in whispers about just how "cold, mean, vicious, broody, dull, blank, unfeeling" --- "a monster" --- he can be most of the times.

in short, they just want to bug him until he confesses just why he acts the way he does.

the people that they call themselves 'his friends' (one must note that it is them who self-proclaim to be more than just acquaintaces of his, not him. he is always careful to distance himself from people.) will just look him in the eye, nod a bit, and finger the red ribbon on their arms and walk off. the squeeze on his shoulder they leave behind, the single touch to the back of his neck --- it's a copyright routine of theirs now to press two fingers down softly; gently --- the way they let their head tilt down a little, bending as to stare off into the distance, as if hoping a girl in _pink _will suddenly appear. . .

in a nutshell, it simply translates to: _we understand, Cloud. _

he feels uncomfortable that he is read like an open book. but realizes what they know is only skimming the surface.

(damn well you understand. you know nothing better.)

he pushes them away.

what do they know?

they know nothing of the three hundred and sixty five days he've spent crying tears ---- sometimes he uncontrollably breaks down when waking up from a harsh dream at night (about her, again, no doubt), sometimes it only takes Denzel to catch his hand in his and squeeze it, and goddammit, that child reminds him so much of her, and then there's Marlene, whose doleful eyes don't serve as any better reminder of who inspired those little glimmers in her irises: a lady, a female, the one who changed it all; an angel.

they know _nothing _of the tears, the holes in his heart, the trigger to his head, the nights he spent just wishing to fade away into wisps and join her -----

"why are you so cold, Cloud? surely it doesn't hurt to smile."

logic says it's time to move on. one can't keep hanging on to the past.

Cloud has always been a practical man.

this burden of remembering just seems impossibly illogical and uncharacteristic of him, but ---

voices from the past go: "why can't you smile and laugh and joke like you used to back in SOLDIER? you ARE a cheerful man, cloud. not WERE."

. . .

_go away. you don't know anything. _

he looks in the mirror and pulls a smile.

the next second, he is tying the red ribbon tighter around his forearm; tighter than ever, all over again, in minute details. the wrapping around his flesh, the tying into knots, the bittersweetness in seeing red silk hug his skin.

guilt, unmistakable regrets, shame flood the void in him.

his fist shatters the mirror. his smile drops.

_Iwanttomoveon,IwanttobetheoldCloudagain,Iwanttosmileandlaughalot---IwanttomoveonIwanttomoveonIwanttomoveon. it hurts so damn well fuckin' much, goddammit._

but realizes it's all too late.

he has long forgotten how to smile. (how do you be happy? how do you learn to laugh again?)

how do you just do all that over night when the past two years have been filled with pain and bittersweetness and lost precious memories and that angel that constantly haunts you?

how can you just go out to the world the next day, put a smile on your face, and pretend nothing's happened in the time that passed in between?

he wishes it possible.

but every smile he makes to the mirror, every laughter he forces out of his lips (sound like croaks to his ears), just seem so bloody _fake. _

"why, cloud, why? we miss the old you. please, move on. you're only twenty-three. you have a life ahead of you."

a life ahead of him. . .

he looks ahead.

sees nothing.

looks down.

sees the red ribbon.

(all too late, too late.)

. . . and realizes it means everything ; the past, the present, and shall it be the future.

somehow, it completes _everything. _somehow, it feels home.

"why, cloud, why?"

he only turns to the wind, thinks of an angel, and whispers:

"I couldn't save you, that's why."

. . . and now pays the price with that red ribbon cutting razor-deep into his skin around the clock.

"_why, cloud, why?"_

"_...because I love you, that's why." _

**owari.**


End file.
